


POPPTORP, a sturdier successor with practical storage under a removable seat

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [98]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Meatballs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:57:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8833042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: a sensual encounter at Ikea





	

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who prompted: In honor of Class, and because, frankly, the idea weirdly excites me, Doctor/Clara, sex in an Ikea.

Clara sat on the edge of a bed, legs swinging. “This’ll be fun. Like _The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs Basil E. Frankweiler._ ”

“The who in the what now?” The Doctor mumbled around the golf pencil in his mouth, scribbling away in his notebook with another golf pencil.

“You’re only supposed to take one of those,” she said, gesturing at the pencil tucked behind his ear.

“Is there a law?”

“More of an unspoken rule.” She bounced up and down. The HÖVÅG mattress was a bit too firm for her tastes.

“Then it doesn’t count,” he replied, exasperated. Like, duh, obviously. And then he was off, a dramatic twirl and pencils falling out of his pocket. Following the yellow arrows into Office Furniture.

“How many did you take, anyway?” She skipped to catch up, trying to look stern while jogging.

“Um. Many, I think. Wait. _Wait._ Stop. You said something.” He ground to a halt and pointed accusingly at a desk chair, then spun around til he managed to point at her. “It’s important when you say things. I was listening. Something, something, Rottweiler folders?”

Clara kept walking towards Kitchens. “ _From The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs Basil E. Frankweiler._ It’s a children’s book about a brother and sister who run away and live in a museum.”

“This isn’t a museum,” the Doctor said, brushing past her. He bent to attach a small silver disc to the underside of a LIATORP, waiting until it cheerfully beeped notice of its activation.

“Good observational skills.”

“Thank you. And we’re not brother and sister.” Disc Two, tucked behind fake books on a tasteful white-birch shelf.

“Clearly.”

“So the connection here is…?”

She sighed heavily. “It’s after hours? We’re somewhere we shouldn’t be? The surrealism of display rooms you could almost live in. There’s just something about it.”

Disc Three slid inside a handy plastic organizational system. “Was it erotic in the book as well, or is that just you?”

_Pardon?_ “It’s not erotic.” Hands on hips as he skidded past her on a swivel chair.

“It will be,” he yelled, drifting off into Living Rooms.

She followed. He was lounging on a sofa now, almost suggestively nestling Disc Four in between the cushions.

“How do you know?” she asked, stepping in close. His legs parted automatically.

“I just do,” he said quietly, intensely. Left hand still fingering the couch.

“That’s creepy.” She leaned over him, hands braced on the back of the sofa.

“Good creepy or bad creepy?”

“Both,” she whispered.

They shared a moment. And then he was off again, skittering towards Children’s Furniture, Disc Five held high aloft.

Clara rolled her eyes and sat down on the sofa.

 

 

Half an hour later, the Doctor stumbled back into her peripheral vision, holding an industrial vat of meatballs.

“The barrier’s finished?”

“The barrier is finished.” He dropped the meatball bucket ungracefully on the floor.

“The pencils are a gray area, stealing meatballs is a crime.” She tucked her phone back into her jacket pocket.

“I paid,” he said defensively.

“In what currency?”

“The…usual. Look, it’s not important. What is important is that our work here is done, and now we’ve got all the time in the world to do your thing.”

“My thing.”

“Yeah.”

She looked at him. He looked at her. They followed the yellow arrows back to Beds.

“Your thing,” he said again, on the threshold to a fake bedroom. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s a bit like being in a play, isn’t it,” she said, taking his hand and tugging him towards the bed. “The narrative of our Scandinavian flat-pack selves in our generically well-appointed Scandinavian flat-pack home.”

“MALM,” he squeaked out as his back hit the mattress. “Is what this bedframe is called,” he specified, pointing to the price tag.

“And breaking and entering without being caught, that’s always a thrill.” She straddled him, thighs tight around his waist. Pulled her jumper over her head, let him undo her bra. He had a weird fascination about bra mechanics and Nipple Sensitivity Zones.

He breathed in deep, some sort of cog clearly chugging along in his brain. Or maybe that was just his erection winding up, going by what she was currently grinding against.

“Oh, nearly forgot, I got you something.” He squirmed beneath her, digging deep into his coat pocket and producing a, what. Scrub brush.

She leaned back, squinted. “Sorry?”

“It’s a FLURGBAR.” He pressed it delicately into her hands.

“Ah. Right-o.”

“It’s, um. The handle.”

The handle did really kind of resemble a dildo. “I’m not shoving a FLURGBAR up your arse. You don’t know where it’s been. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know where _you’ve_ been. Let’s keep it simple, yeah?”

“No anal in the Ikea, understood,” he mumbled.

She laughed, and kissed him before he could say anything worse. She shifted back and undid his trousers. “Scandinavian flat-pack penis,” she announced, taking said penis out. “Don’t suppose you have an allen key on you.”

“Possibly, but it’d be under all those pencils - _oh._ Okay. Thanks.”

“GENITÄLEN,” she said, pumping his shaft with a modern, modular sensibility. “Is what your cock is called,” she specified. “HÄNDJOBBERT.”

“Hnng,” he replied, falling apart like a cheap laminate bookshelf.


End file.
